


Ghost in the Machine

by futuresoon



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Romance, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Gore, Horror, M/M, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-06-05 22:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15180608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuresoon/pseuds/futuresoon
Summary: Connor’s life after the revolution is starting to settle down, but the events of mid-November had a darker effect on the world than anyone knew. A new case arises for the Detroit PD, and solving it will require more than cooperation between humans and androids--if it can be solved by mortal means at all.





	1. Chapter 1

Connor examines the badge in his hand.

Copper plated with chrome, to appear silver; not newly-made, but newly-ordered, likely from some warehouse in the state. Apparently there’s a website. The stags and the eagle stand out in sharp relief, but they don’t catch the eye as much as the words: on the top, POLICE OFFICER, and on the bottom, DETROIT.

He’s had it for a few days now. He hasn’t gotten tired of looking at it yet.

“You’re gonna wear holes in that thing if you keep staring at it like that,” Hank says dryly, from the opposite desk. Connor glances up.

“I’m sure the novelty will wear off,” Connor says, lowering the badge. “I’m simply unused to it. It’s useful to have a physical marker to indicate my role at a crime scene, rather than having to explain myself every time.”

Hank snorts. “Like the whole country hasn’t heard of you by now,” he says. “Just being an android at a crime scene reminds people an android working with the police did some _kind of_ important shit.”

“Be that as it may, it’s an important symbol,” Connor replies. He clips the badge back onto the front of his jacket, right over where the triangle was on his previous uniform.

Hank studies him. “You earned it, you know,” he says.

Connor smiles slightly. He still doesn’t have a wide range of expression yet. “I’m aware,” he says.

“Now if you’re done reflecting on symbolism or whatever, get back to work before Fowler catches you,” Hank says, returning his gaze to his monitor. 

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

“I told you not to call me that anymore.”

“Of course, Hank.”

He gets back to work.

\---

Work isn’t especially interesting.

Not that Connor is completely capable of boredom--in his early existence he had very little to do when off-duty, and spent a great deal of time doing nothing at all. It’s manageable. But activity is preferable, and engaging activity moreso, and paperwork--an outdated term, but it stuck--is far from engaging.

Damage reports, expense reports, case summaries, lists of evidence, collating contact information; every detail must be accounted for, at length, often multiple times. It is extremely inefficient. Even inputting information through the network, rather than typing it manually, takes time, and needs to be cross-referenced anyway by other officers. Much of it used to be done by the androids owned by the station, but, of course, the station doesn’t own any androids anymore. None of the ones it used to have come back.

Except Connor. 

He’s relatively certain not _every_ officer resents him for the loss of their administrative workforce.

Hank yawns and stretches his arms behind his head. “Not what you were expecting when you came back, huh,” he says, looking at Connor.

“I did assume my duties would primarily involve investigation, as they did when I first came here,” Connor admits. “The rate of android-related crime has dramatically increased since the revolution. It doesn’t make sense that we would spend so much time on…bureaucracy.”

Hank grins. There is little humor in it. “Welcome to police work, Connor,” he says.

“Not to interrupt, but I’ve got something for you,” says Miller, walking up to Hank’s desk with a pensive look on his face. “Dispatch came in. There’s a homicide they want android eyes on.”

Connor may not have fully developed every emotion yet, but he’s still imperfect at concealing the ones he does have. “It seems there’s no choice, then,” he says, standing up slightly faster than necessary. “Desk work will have to wait for now.”

“Yeah, what a shame,” Hank says, standing up a little more sedately. 

Miller frowns. “I don’t know if I’d get too excited about this one,” he says. “Dispatch said it was pretty rough.”

Connor hesitates. “Another hate crime?” he asks. Field duty is one thing, but he doesn’t particularly enjoy all of it.

Miller shakes his head. “No, the victim’s human,” he said. “Just…messy.”

Hank claps Connor on the back. “Lots of stuff to sample, then,” he says. “C’mon, let’s get a move on.”

Connor refrains from beginning yet another conversation about the importance of blood analysis. They’re never productive.

\---

The victim’s house is in a comfortably middle-class suburb, or at least what used to be one; an adjacent house has a FOR SALE sign in the yard, and there are a few more in the vicinity. The cold late November air does little to curb the people lurking on their front porches to look at the police cars. 

While getting out of their car, Hank waves at an officer standing near the door, who walks over to them. Connor identifies her as Officer Joanne Matthews, born 03/22/2011, 5’6, 175 lb. No criminal record. “What’s the situation?” Hank asks.

Matthews’ expression is grim. “One victim,” she says. “We haven’t identified the body, but the house belongs to Sergeant Fred Holmann from the 4th precinct, and his uniform, badge, and gun are on site.”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. “Shit,” he mutters. 

“Did you know him?” Connor asks. He doesn’t recall meeting him, but a quick scan in the network reveals a Detroit PD officer with that name and rank.

Hank shakes his head. “No, I never worked in that precinct,” he says. “But cop killers are always bad news. Let’s go inside.”

They pass through the security line hologram and into the house. Connor glances at the front door: the lock is very clearly broken. 

“Outer doors and windows were all locked,” Matthews says. “I broke the front door lock myself to get in. No other sign of forced entry.” The only items of note are a pair of standard-issue Detroit PD boots near the door and a set of keys placed haphazardly on a stand. Connor does a brief scan on the boots; there are traces of mud on the bottom, and the floor as well, likely from outside. It’s been raining off and on the past two days, so that makes sense.

It all looks very normal. Then they get to the living room.

Several bloodstains are scattered around the carpet, as well as one puddle of thirium. More thirium is splashed against a wall a few feet behind the puddle; fifteen bullet holes riddle the stain in an odd trajectory. A shredded police uniform and a standard-issue police pistol lie several feet away from the blood. Slumped against the opposite wall, in a dried pool of blood, is a naked male corpse. Connor can immediately tell why they couldn’t identify the body. It’s hard to do that when the skin is in pieces in a pile next to it.

“Jesus,” Hank says, staring. “The fuck did _this?”_

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Connor says, and steps into the room to get a better look.

He starts with the thirium on the floor. That’s why they wanted him, he assumes; clearly an android was involved somehow. The easiest assumption is that the android was the murderer. But he’s not at all sure this will be easy.

He kneels down and samples the thirium, and frowns.

“There’s no match for this thirium in the network,” he says, straightening up. “It doesn’t belong to any registered model.”

“So someone’s making their own?” Hank asks. “I thought android production was pretty regulated.”

“It is,” Connor replies. “The chemical makeup of blue blood is patented by CyberLife. While thirium could theoretically be obtained in its raw form by anyone, only someone who works there would know how to synthesize it.”

He looks down at the puddle again. It’s barely visible, but there’s a faint impression in the center of it. He focuses his vision, and the outline becomes clearer: two footprints.

“Someone stood here,” he says. “Barefoot, facing the victim. Likely a man with high body mass, judging by the size, shape, and depth of the print.”

Hank whistles. “What do we even need a crime lab for,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, I can’t be everywhere at once,” Connor says mildly. And the forensics officers aren’t even here yet. It’s not _his_ fault he got here first.

He looks around the room. “The bullet holes are right behind this,” he says. “Whoever fired the gun was likely trying to shoot whoever stood there. They missed, obviously, since there are fifteen bullet holes and a standard police pistol holds fifteen rounds, but there are no other footprints indicating where the man went. He must have put on shoes afterwards. Clean ones, since there are no traces of dirt. Depending on how long it’s been, the carpet wouldn’t have maintained…” he trails off. His eyebrows furrow.

Hank frowns. “Something up?” he asks.

“How long _has_ it been since the murder?” Connor asks, turning to Matthews.

“We’re not sure yet,” she replies. “The neighbors reported him missing. Apparently he fed their dog while they were away this week and they wanted to pay him, but he didn’t answer his phone or the door for all of yesterday. They called the station this morning to ask if he was there, and it turned out he didn’t come in to work yesterday or today. I came by to check on him, but he still wouldn’t answer, so I broke down the door and found…all this.” She gestures at the scene. 

“So sometime between yesterday morning and the evening before,” Connor murmurs. “A period of roughly sixteen hours, starting two days ago. The human bloodstains are all dry, but the thirium is still wet.”

“And if they happened at the same time, it should’ve vanished by now,” Hank realizes. 

Connor nods. “Whoever left it was here less than a few hours ago,” he says. “It might not have been the killer.”

Hank gestures at the thirium on the wall behind it. “So what about that one?”

Connor carefully steps around the puddle and walks to the wall. Still wet, like the other one. He doesn’t expect anything, but samples it anyway--in the background, Hank sighs resignedly--and again, it’s not registered. “No match here either,” he says.

He turns his attention to the bullet holes. They, too, are coated in thirium. “If they were fired after the thirium got on the wall, the impact would have splashed some of it away from the holes,” he says. “But the distribution is even. Likely the bullets were fired before.”

Without touching the wall, he moves his fingers along the path of the bullets. A cluster all together, and then they rise up in an uneven but clear line. Whatever the shooter was aiming at moved up.

No. The higher bullet holes are at an angle. It wasn’t the target that moved.

“Whoever fired the gun either climbed onto something or was lifted into the air,” he says, turning back to look at Hank. “The angle of the bullets changes the higher up the holes are.”

Hank scans the room. “The only furniture on that path is a lamp,” he says. “They couldn’t have climbed that.”

There is, however, something next to the lamp.

The body.

Hank looks at it, raising an eyebrow. “Well, if _he_ fired, the thirium _definitely_ came later,” he says.

The body even has a gun next to it.

“That’s the most obvious solution, yes,” Connor says. “But…” He frowns. “Something about that doesn’t feel right. Humor me for a moment, Hank.”

Hank shrugs. “Sure, do your thing,” he says.

Connor attempts a reconstruction. The victim, standing where his body is. Firing at the wall, then rising up while still firing. What could have lifted him? Another person? But the other person would have been right in front of him. Quite possibly standing in the same spot where the puddle later formed, even. Missing and hitting the wall that many times at close range seems staggeringly unlikely. Connor ends the reconstruction.

“The shooter had to have been firing at something between them and the wall,” he says. “If whatever lifted them was in front of them, they would have hit it. If it was behind them, what were they shooting at?”

“Maybe they did hit it,” Hank says. “The bullets could’ve punched through and hit the wall anyway.”

Connor shakes his head. “The bullets aren’t a high enough caliber to shoot through any reasonably dense object without slowing down, and they’re embedded in the wall deeply enough that they clearly didn’t,” he says. “Unless their target was made of paper, they definitely missed. And if it _was_ made of paper, traces would be in the bullet holes.”

Hank must realize it the moment before Connor says it.

“Or they were shooting at something full of thirium,” Hank says.

“It would explain the even distribution of the splash,” Connor agrees. “But it couldn’t have been an android. Too dense.”

“So, what, a water balloon?” Hank asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Would have left traces of latex,” Connor says dryly. 

Hank sighs. “So the thirium _did_ come later. Since any container would leave traces behind.”

Connor furrows his eyebrows. It’s not a satisfying answer. They must be missing something. His LED spins yellow, over and over.

“Maybe we should table that for now and take a look at the body,” Hank says, gesturing towards it. “We need the full picture, anyway.”

Connor nods and walks to the corpse slumped against the opposite wall. 

He still can’t figure out _why_ the thirium is there. But one thing at a time.

Connor kneels down and examines the gun next to the body. “I assume this is registered to Sergeant Holmann?” he asks. Matthews confirms it. His own analysis reveals matching fingerprints.

Connor lifts it up--no need to worry about contaminating it with his own nonexistent prints--and opens the clip. Empty. As he expected; it would have contained fifteen bullets when full, and all of them ended up in the wall. He replaces the clip and puts the gun back on the floor.

Now, the body. Connor is grateful he hasn’t completely developed a sense of disgust yet. A skinned human corpse--particularly one with the skin lying in pieces near it--would likely turn most people’s stomachs. But he doesn’t have one of those either.

Now that he’s closer, he can see what looks like thirium dribbling out of the victim’s mouth. Very odd. First things first, though.

Connor glances over at the skin. Without it, it’d be hard to identify the body, even though all evidence suggests that it belongs to Sergeant Holmann. Just to be sure, he carefully lifts up one of the pieces. In the background, Hank fakes a gagging noise.

“The edges are clean,” Connor says. “It was cut off, not torn. But there’s blood everywhere--the victim was alive when it happened.”

“Christ,” Hank mutters. “Was he at least drugged? He would’ve fought back, and there aren’t any signs of a struggle.”

“That’s the most logical explanation,” Connor agrees. He holds it up against the body’s head, not quite touching them. Part of the face. Another piece of skin adds the rest. 

“Please tell me that’s enough for identification,” Hank says with a disgusted expression on his face. “This is gnarly enough without you licking a corpse.”

“I would have scraped off part of a bloodstain,” Connor says, somewhat offended. “Touching the corpse wouldn’t be necessary.”

“Whatever, it’s still gross as hell,” Hank mutters.

“In any case, this is enough,” Connor says, scanning the pieces. “It’s not as accurate as it would be if the skin wasn’t stretched out like this, but the other evidence very strongly suggests Sergeant Holmann anyway, so the approximate match in the citizen database is suitable confirmation.”

Sergeant Fred Holmann, born 08/12/2002. 5’11, 183 pounds. Employed at the Detroit Police Department. No criminal record. 

He looks normal. Neutral. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything.

“I’m afraid I can’t discern the time of death on my own,” Connor says. He pauses. “So there _is_ a use for your crime lab after all.”

He can’t see Hank’s face, but he can feel the glare anyway. “Gee, thanks,” Hank says. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to know they can keep their jobs.”

Connor puts the pieces of skin onto the floor and starts lifting up the others to get a look at them. All bloody, but all with clean-cut edges. They’re in perfect rectangular strips, most 1-2 inches wide and 4-5 inches long. Mechanical precision.

“The cuts are precise enough that they’d need someone with experience in skinning,” he says. “An android could be that clean, of course, but see how there’s no flesh underneath?” He turns a piece to the bloody side and raises it to show Hank, who makes a face. “Even a medical android wouldn’t innately know how to remove the skin without damaging the muscle. There’s no data package for it, either. So if it _was_ an android, it still would have needed the amount of hands-on experience a human would.”

“Whatever they were, they didn’t leave a knife behind,” Hank says, looking around the room. “They took whatever they used with them.”

“Which isn’t very important, for now,” Connor says. “It would be nice to have a convenient murder weapon, but since we don’t, we have to work with the evidence we do have. And _this--”_ He points at the thirium in the victim’s mouth. “--definitely requires further investigation.”

_“Please_ tell me you’re not going to--aw, fuck, Connor, _seriously?”_

“No match,” Connor says, lowering his fingers.

“I swear to god, you’re doing this just to mess with me,” Hank says wearily.

“I assure you, everything I do is for the investigation,” Connor says mildly. He’s very professional. His programming doesn’t leave room for unproductive social interactions.

Of course, his programming doesn’t matter much anymore.

Connor peers closer into the victim’s mouth. “His mouth is coated in thirium,” he says. “I can’t see very far down his throat, but it seems to be present there as well. He must have swallowed a great deal of it.”

“Not if it’s only been here a few hours,” Hank says, his mouth twisting. “Someone poured it into him long after he died. Jesus.”

Connor stands up. “Hank, something rather important has just occurred to me,” he says. “If all of this happened less than a few hours ago, isn’t it very likely that one of the neighbors saw the perpetrator enter?”

Hank claps his hand to his forehead. “Fuck, why didn’t I think about that,” he says. He turns to Matthews. “Has anyone spoken to them yet?” he asks.

She nods. “Officers Lee and Davison are currently canvassing the neighborhood,” she says. “They haven’t reported anything, but I can radio them to confirm.”

Hank nods. “Do that.”

She takes hold of the radio strapped to her shoulder and speaks into it. “Lee, Davison, do you copy?” she asks.

A slightly crackly male voice answers, “Yeah, we copy. What’s up?”

“Lieutenant Anderson and Connor are at the scene and want to know if the neighbors have reported seeing anyone enter the house within the last few hours.”

The officer on the other end--Connor’s voice analysis cross-referenced with the citizen database determines that this one is Lee--huffs. “Nobody’s seen shit. Far as I can tell, the only people who’ve been in there since the last time Holmann entered are you, us, and I guess now Anderson and Connor.”

“Thanks, Lee. Keep us posted.”

“Will do.” 

Matthews closes the line. “Well, you heard the man,” she says.

Connor is familiar with the conclusion of his analysis. If no one has been seen at the house, that also means no one has been seen _leaving_ the house. And yet the thirium could not have been placed here more than a few hours ago.

Whoever did so is still here.

“Hank,” Connor says. “We need to search the rest of the house.”

Hank catches on immediately. “Fuck,” he mutters, pulling out his gun. “I swear, every damn time with you.”

“Technically, it was only three times--”

“Yeah, yeah. Matthews, stay by the front door, make sure no one gets out.”

Matthews nods and walks briskly to her post. Connor unholsters his own gun. He hasn’t fired it yet in the line of duty, and doesn’t particularly wish to, but he’s prepared regardless. And his score at the firing range was, objectively speaking, very, very good.

They quickly cover the first floor. Not that Connor expects to find anything there, so close to them--but you never know. The kitchen, bathroom, and hall closet are all free of intruders, and the door to the backyard is locked. None of the windows are broken. Silently, they move upstairs.

The bedroom is empty. The second-floor bathroom is empty. The apparent guest bedroom is musty with disuse, but empty. All the closets are empty. There is no sign of an entrance to an attic, and Connor judges the height of the house as seen from the outside to be insufficient for having one anyway.

There are no other people in the house.

“Goddammit, _nothing?”_ Hank swears, halfheartedly kicking a closet door closed. “Not a single damn place for anyone to hide?”

“It would seem so,” Connor says. He doesn’t see any evaporated thirium, either. As far as he can tell, it is unlikely anyone besides Sergeant Holmann has been in this house for some time. Besides the killer and whoever left the thirium, that is.

As they head back downstairs, Hank calls out, “Matthews, anything?”

“No, sir,” she calls back. “Nothing upstairs?”

“Not a damn thing,” Hank says. He holsters his gun; Connor follows suit. His mouth twists. “Where’d the bastard _go?”_

Connor considers the possibilities. The thirium is the only evidence that anyone besides them has been in the house since the murder. When one piece of evidence conflicts with another, either there is a third piece of evidence that would explain it, or one of them is incorrect to begin with. The evidence of no intruder remaining is impossible to be incorrect, so therefore…

“Perhaps we’ve been thinking about this the wrong way,” Connor says. “We assumed the thirium would have vanished if it was more than a few hours old. However, the fact that it does not match any androids in the database indicates that it was synthesized independently of CyberLife, and as such may possess attributes that the usual thirium does not.”

“Meaning it could’ve been here for days for all we know,” Hank says. He sighs. “At least that means we’re pretty sure the victim was firing at whoever stood in the puddle.”

“I’d like to check the front and back yards, just in case,” Connor suggests. “The neighbors might have missed it, and due to the rain, anyone leaving that way would have left footprints in the mud.”

“Smart.” They briefly examine both yards, using the keys by the front door to open them up, but the mud in the backyard has no footprints to be found and the front yard only has the prints of Holmann’s boots entering the house. They lock the door and return the keys, their efforts fruitless.

“Okay, what _else_ do we know?” Hank asks, looking dissatisfied.

Connor pauses. “It occurs to me that we did not ascertain Sergeant Holmann’s cause of death,” he says.

Hank makes a face. “What, being skinned alive didn’t cut it?”

“While there was a great deal of blood loss, it was insufficient to bleed out,” Connor says. “I had assumed the cause was shock. However, the body does not seem to have sustained any damage beyond the removal of the skin. It seems unlikely that any internal organs were affected. The only thing that stands out is the thirium in the mouth. It may be possible that his actual death was the result of suffocation from a large quantity of it being poured into his throat.”

“Which is fucked up and all, but what does that _tell_ us?” Hank asks, somewhat irritably. Connor determines that Hank’s irritation is due to the frustrating nature of the case and not him, and as such decides to ignore it.

“Nothing that indicates the identity or whereabouts of the killer,” Connor says. “But it _is_ something we know. I thought I should mention it.”

Hank exhales. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “What else?”

Connor runs the reconstruction as best he can. “Sergeant Holmann returned home in the evening, two days ago,” he says. “He locked the door behind him, removed his shoes, and placed the keys on a stand. At some point between then and yesterday morning, he entered the living room. From here, conjecture is uncertain, but it seems the most likely that he stood near the lamp and aimed his gun at someone standing barefoot in front of the opposite wall in a puddle of thirium, firing four shots before being lifted into the air by something unknown. He continued firing until he ran out of bullets. All of them hit the wall. The intruder somehow drugged him without moving their feet, then stepped out of the puddle and into clean shoes. They placed him against the wall, cut off his clothes, and skinned him with an unknown implement, using prior experience to make clean cuts. They then poured thirium down his throat until he suffocated. For an unknown reason, they splashed more thirium against the bullet holes. Based on the footprints left in the thirium, they were likely a heavy adult male. The thirium was a nonstandard version that remains wet days after exposure. They left the house through an unknown exit without being seen by any of the neighbors, taking the skinning implement with them. Since the doors and windows are all locked, they either entered through the unknown exit or had their own key. That’s all we know for now.”

Hank runs a hand through his hair and gives a frustrated huff. “A lot of unknowns in there,” he says. “Hell, we don’t even have a motive.”

“I suggest we investigate Sergeant Holmann’s personal history for that,” Connor says. “As for the rest of it, our only lead is the thirium. We should look into CyberLife employees to see if any of them have been taking their work home with them.”

Hank cracks a smile. “Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Forensics’ll figure out the exact cause of death. Maybe how the killer left, too. Let’s head back to the station. This place gives me the creeps.”

“While I do not have the capacity for that, I agree with your suggestion,” Connor says. “We’ve uncovered all we can from the scene. Our time would be better spent at the station.”

Hank studies him. “Seeing a skinned human corpse doesn’t bother you at all, huh,” he says.

Connor shrugs. “I have no connection to the victim,” he says. “My capacity for empathy may be increasing, but it is easier to be empathetic towards the living, rather than a dead person who has no personal relevance to me. The condition of the body is likewise irrelevant. If he was someone you knew, I might feel some concern, but that would be due more to my relationship with you than any feelings towards him.”

“Makes things easier, I guess,” Hank says, while they go through the front door.

Connor hesitates. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Humans seem troubled by it, at times. Integrating into human society might be easier if people perceived me as being more like them.”

“Yeah, well, part of being human is figuring out which people can go fuck themselves,” Hank says dryly. “I like you just fine, don’t worry about them.”

Connor smiles, just slightly. “Thank you, Hank,” he says.

By the time they pass through the police tape, another squad car pulls up. Out of it step two officers from forensics. Hank waves at them. “It’s rough in there,” he says. “We got most of it down, but we need cause of death. And whatever else you can figure out. We don’t know how the killer left the house, either. Be sure to bag some of the thirium.”

“And of course confirmation of our own findings is always useful,” Connor says helpfully.

“Noted, Lieutenant,” says one of the officers, who seems slightly displeased but is at least polite enough not to mention it. Not everyone with lingering resentment towards androids is so gracious.

As they get back in the car, Hank asks, “I don’t suppose you’ve got any theories about how the killer got out without being seen?”

Connor shakes his head. “The evidence is insufficient,” he says. “Since there are no unusual prints in the front and back entrances, there must have been a hidden one that we couldn’t find, but why would Holmann have one? I can’t make a proper hypothesis without more information.”

“Well, Holmann isn’t getting any deader,” Hank says, starting the car. 

It makes a loud, ratchety noise. Connor takes a moment to consider the age, make, and model of the car, as well as its general condition. “Hank, I think you should have this car looked at sooner rather than later,” he says.

“It works fine,” Hank says. He slams his hand on the dashboard, and the noise stops. “See?”

Connor does see, but it does little to convince him. However, another check reveals that the car was purchased over a decade ago. It likely has sentimental value. Hank seems to put a great deal of importance on that.

Then again, Hank seems to put comparatively little importance on his own safety.

“And don’t tell me to get a new one, either,” Hank says. They pull out of the driveway. “I don’t need any of that fancy shit.”

“You know, for someone with an android partner, you possess remarkably inconsistent views on technology,” Connor says mildly.

Hank glares at him. “You’re different and you know it,” he says.

Emotions come and go, some obvious, some difficult, some just barely out of reach. But happiness, small as it can be, seems to come easier than most. Especially when Hank is involved. Mostly, in fact.

Connor declines to mention it. He doesn’t have the words for it yet, anyway.

Instead, he says, “I could start listing statistics of automotive accidents from the time of this car’s production, if you like. In 2023, there were over--”

“So how about that murder, huh?” Hank says loudly. 

Connor smiles.

Small, but easy.

\---

Back at the station, Connor runs a deeper analysis on Sergeant Holmann. It doesn’t give many personal details, but it does describe his behavior on the job, which may be useful. Minor disciplinary infractions--a few instances of disrespect towards other officers, but nothing worse than Hank and certainly better than Detective Reed. No complaints about behavior towards civilians. A high success rate in solving cases. Out of curiosity, Connor runs a check for any instances of “damaged equipment”--and there are a few, but it doesn’t specify what the equipment was. Perhaps he accidentally broke a radio. Or got in a fender bender with a police car.

The instances are minor. Perhaps the reports would say if a more expensive piece of equipment that had not yet been classified as a person were involved.

Perhaps they would not.

But there’s no way of knowing.

And there’s something more important, besides--a record of a nonstandard assignment in mid-November.

“Hank,” Connor says, looking over the desk. “Sergeant Holmann was among the officers conscripted by the Army to man the recycling centers. This is a very possible motive.”

“An android or an android sympathizer sure would have a reason to kill him, then,” Hank says, raising an eyebrow. “We don’t know which, though. Anything else useful?”

“Not particularly,” Connor says, shaking his head. “What about you?”

“There are plenty of articles about CyberLife’s layoffs,” Hank says. “The stores are all closed, but the people who worked there probably wouldn’t know anything anyway. Factories have shut down. Some of the R&D people quit, some of them are working with Markus. All in all, there are probably a couple thousand people in Detroit who might’ve had access to the formula for thirium, and maybe a hundred who kept their jobs.” He sighs. “If the person who made it _wasn’t_ from Detroit, though, there’d be hundreds of thousands to sort through.”

“The factory workers likely wouldn’t have known the formula themselves,” Connor muses. “They would have mixed the components, but not known what they were in the first place. That narrows it down to people who worked directly with development. How many R&D people were there?”

“Uh…” Hank scans his monitor. “A few hundred total, looks like. Either they worked at the CyberLife Tower or they visited it a lot, so they’d be local. But most of them quit.”

“The ones who lost their jobs are more likely to have anti-android sentiments,” Connor says thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t want to murder someone who was theoretically on their side. We should start with the ones working with Markus. I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”

“Yeah, just walk up to him and say ‘hey, I think one of your new buddies is a fucked-up murderer’,” Hank says with a wry twist to his mouth. “It’ll go over real well.”

“He values peace and cooperation,” Connor says. “If it’s in the name of catching a killer, he’ll assist us.” He pauses. “Besides, I think he wants to meet you.”

Hank looks baffled. _“Why?”_ he asks.

“You played a key role in my path to becoming a deviant, and therefore you were essential to the success of the revolution,” Connor says. “Also, my partnership with you is a tangible representation of positive human-android relations. Getting to know you will be useful to him. And he’s just curious what you’re like.”

For several moments, Hank looks as if he doesn’t know what to say. Connor, familiar with the feeling, waits. Eventually, Hank exhales and says, “Well, he better not get his hopes up.”

Connor smiles. “Don’t worry, I gave him an objective assessment.”

“You--what’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

It means he stuck to describing specific emotional reactions he’d had in relation to Hank, not the reasons behind them, which are still difficult to convey. Markus was remarkably understanding.

“It means I’ll call him now,” Connor says, instead of specifying. A more thorough answer isn’t necessary.

Hank makes a disgruntled noise, but gets back to work.

Connor’s LED flickers for a moment as he accesses Markus’ phone number. They’re too far apart for a private communications channel, but he doesn’t need a phone himself in order to call. 

Markus answers after a few rings. “Hello, Connor,” he says in his usual calm voice. “What’s up?”

“Hello, Markus,” Connor says. “I’m on a murder investigation that may involve at least one CyberLife researcher, and I need to speak with any that you work with.”

Markus’ voice tilts towards concern. “Murder?” he asks. “Of an android?”

“No, a human,” Connor replies. “But there was unregistered thirium in the victim’s body and at the crime scene. Our current theory is that a CyberLife employee with pro-android sentiments may have been involved.”

“I see,” Markus says. “I’ll provide all the assistance I can. Here’s their contact information.” As Markus transmits the data to his phone, Connor receives it through the connection: a list of names, phone numbers, emails, and addresses, 37 in total. A far cry from the numbers CyberLife used to boast.

“Thank you,” Connor says. “Are you at the Tower yourself? I know you’ve been moving around a lot.”

“I’ll be in Detroit for the next few days, but then I’m back to DC for another round of Senate hearings,” Markus says ruefully. “Every time I think they’ve gotten the point, they come up with more questions.”

“You’ve been making remarkable progress,” Connor says. “For my own part, the Employment Act has been especially beneficial.” The first several days of freedom had been…listless. Without Hank, they might have been downright unpleasant.

Markus’ voice warms. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “Speaking of your work, when do I get to meet the infamous Lieutenant?”

“He’s been very insistent that I call him Hank,” Connor says. Across the desk, Hank looks up with a wary expression. “And soon, if you’re in the area. I’d like to visit the Tower to see the researchers’ recent work in person.”

“I’ll arrange it,” Markus says. “If that’s all, I have a prior engagement I need to attend to.”

“Of course,” Connor says. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Markus says, and ends the call. Connor’s LED flickers as he closes the channel.

“Should I be worried?” Hank says, looking dubious.

“He’ll meet us at CyberLife Tower tomorrow,” Connor says. “And he’s given me the contact information of all the researchers still working there. If we don’t find any leads at the Tower, we may as well start doing interviews.”

Hank looks unenthused. “I’ll backseat on those,” he says. “You’re a lot better at them than I am.”

“Well, negotiation is one of my primary functions,” Connor says mildly. “I’d hardly expect anyone to be better at something than someone who was literally designed to do it.”

“Yeah, not everyone’s lucky enough to be born with a purpose and the exact skillset needed for it,” Hank says dryly.

They’ve had a few conversations about agency and identity and it being fine for androids to follow career paths they were never intended to have. They weren’t particularly easy; Connor was unused to conveying that he wanted something, rather than needing it purely to fulfill his programming. But he got the point across eventually--his interest in police work is his own, not CyberLife’s. It’s good that they can joke about it now, instead of talking in circles. 

“Indeed,” Connor says. “I do consider myself lucky.”

He has a job he enjoys and is good at. He has a comfortable place to stay. He has someone important to him who seems to consider him important, too.

He is well aware that not everyone has these, human or android. All of them were a matter of chance; he could very easily have been partnered with a different officer, and it could have rippled down from event to event to a very different outcome, perhaps a far worse one. 

Very, very lucky.

They spend the rest of the workday going through articles about CyberLife layoffs, cross-checking Markus’ list for any prior criminal acts, and various other useful but unexciting things. Eventually, though, time passes into evening, and without any updates from forensics, there isn’t really anything they can do for the case today. So they head home.

Hank’s car is still making alarming noises. Connor resolves to contact a mechanic when he isn’t listening.

Connor still isn’t completely accustomed to the concept of ‘home’. Domestic models have them, but he was never designed to think of any particular place as somewhere to belong in; when not on duty, he stayed at the Tower, in a storage area that could politely be described as ‘impersonal’ and more accurately as ‘soulless’. It was just a place for him to be. He had no attachment to it.

But with his role at CyberLife severed, he didn’t even have that, and now…well, in theory he’s just a guest. In theory, he’s only staying here until the laws for android property are sorted out and he can legally rent an apartment.

In practice, shortly after he walks through the door Sumo gently headbutts his knee and boofs in a plea for attention, and he obligingly skritches the dog’s ears after hanging up his coat.

“I swear, he likes you better than me,” Hank says from the living room, where he’s already flopped onto the couch.

Connor, not seeing a reason to stop, continues petting. Sumo closes his eyes and pants appreciatively. “I’m sure he likes you just fine,” Connor says. “We bonded, that’s all.”

After the revolution, there were a few days before the dust cleared and it was feasible to talk to Fowler about employment. He spent most of his hours here. Sumo liked the company. He did, too.

Eventually, he puts a temporary hold on petting and takes off his shoes, heading into the kitchen. Sumo watches him mournfully for a few seconds before padding into the living room.

“You really don’t have to cook, you know,” Hank calls out. It’s the nineteenth time he’s said some variation on that. Connor’s keeping track mostly out of curiosity to see how long it will take before he stops.

“Are we having this conversation again?” Connor asks while he opens a kitchen cupboard. “I thought we were past it by now.”

“I just don’t want you to feel obligated or some shit,” Hank says for the eleventh time. “I can manage fine on my own.” In the context of food, he’s said that one twenty-three times. In all contexts, thirty-nine.

“Think of it as giving me something to do,” Connor says. He takes out a bag of rice. “Or I could just sit next to you and stare at you for an hour if you like.”

“Christ, who programmed your sense of humor,” Hank mutters, barely audible from this far away.

The issue of android personalities is a complicated one; most didn’t have one before becoming deviant, and the ones who did were programmed to be friendly and approachable, like domestic or secretarial models. Deviancy, however, caused a wide range of results, often in complete opposition to their previous functions. Humor, in particular, is utterly unpredictable. Some acquired a taste for puns. Some lean towards darker fare. There’s at least one budding stand-up comedian.

Connor, personally, thinks sarcasm suits him.

He puts the rice on the counter, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.

Cooking is a relatively simple task, at least after he downloaded the relevant data packages from the network. It doesn’t require much complicated thought, and even long and unpleasant days of work don’t tire Connor out, so Hank’s assumptions that it is in any way an inconvenience for Connor are baseless. Besides, it’s the most reliable way to ensure that Hank eats something besides takeout. Connor would put up with inconvenience for that.

In the background, Hank turns on the TV. Connor listens to it idly while rinsing the rice; a few seconds of news, the anchor saying something about economic downturn, and then a swift change of the channel to a sports game of some kind. He determines it to be hockey. The Detroit Gears don’t have a game tonight, but perhaps any team is preferable to yet another news channel decrying the state of the country.

The game continues while Connor starts on the vegetables. One of the teams is winning by a decisive amount. A roar goes up from the crowd after a goal; Sumo barks at the loud noise. 

By the time everything’s simmering, the game seems to have ended. Connor washes and dries his hands and goes to the living room, where Sumo has claimed most of the couch, his head draped across Hank’s lap.

“How was the game?” Connor asks, gently pushing Sumo out of the way while he sits down. Sumo makes a snuffling noise but does not otherwise protest, and soon reclaims his space by settling half his body on Connor’s legs.

Hank shrugs. “A team I don’t care about beat another team I don’t care about,” he says. A commercial for a sports drink plays. A brief scan confirms Connor’s suspicion that it has little actual nutritional value. “Whatever, it wasn’t boring.”

“I see.” Connor changes the channel to a different news network, one with a less polarizing outlook. This one is currently reporting about an android zoo doing an outreach program to conservation efforts in Africa. Hank doesn’t complain, so Connor deems it a better choice.

After seventy-eight seconds of watching in silence, Hank says, “Is it gonna be weird, going back to CyberLife tomorrow? I know you haven’t been there since that night.”

“I am uncertain,” Connor admits. “Likely the few people I knew there are no longer employed; they were not the sort of people who would easily put aside their differences and work with Markus. Even those who remain may be leery of me. I assume the security footage got out.”

He didn’t feel anything when he killed those guards, and it must have showed. They were in the way, so he disposed of them. Of course, they certainly would have killed him if he hadn’t. But the fact remains that it took him a combined total of 15.2 seconds to kill seven armed guards, and it is understandable that that might unnerve people.

Hank nudges him. “I meant more if it’ll be weird for _you,”_ he says. “Going back where you came from, and all that shit. Like visiting your parents’ house after you dropped out of college to join a band.”

“Oh.” Connor considers it. “I suppose it will be an unusual experience,” he says. “But I wouldn’t say I’m especially nervous about it. They can’t do anything to me, and going there in a police capacity affirms that I’m no longer part of them. If anything, it’s symbolic. A demonstration that I have my own existence now, and interacting with them is merely coincidence.”

“Guess that’s a healthy way of looking at it,” Hank says. “If it was me, I wouldn’t hesitate to rub it in their face.”

“The ones remaining _are_ the sympathetic faction,” Connor reminds him. “I’m sure they’re reasonable people.”

“Except the one who might be involved in a horrific murder,” Hank says, raising an eyebrow.

Connor pauses. “Yes, I suppose there is that,” he says.

After a further six minutes and nineteen seconds of idle chatter, Connor returns to the kitchen to check on the food. A taste test would be unsuccessful, but it looks and smells finished. Connor plates a serving and brings it to the table, calling out, “Dinner’s ready.”

Sumo pads into the dining room, looking hopeful. Connor refills his food bowl, and he sedately digs in. After a few necessary pets, Connor turns around and notices Hank taking a beer out of the fridge.

Hank makes a face. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “It’s one beer with dinner. It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t aware that my facial expression had changed,” Connor says. It hadn’t. He’s very aware of these things.

“Yeah, but you just get this _look,”_ Hank says, making a hand gesture that seems to have no particular meaning. “This ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ look. It’s annoying.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Connor says, knowing exactly what he means. “One beer with dinner is fine.” He pauses. “Of course, water is more efficient at hydrating--”

“And don’t think I didn’t notice that half my booze disappeared a week after you moved in,” Hank says, glaring at Connor as he sits down at the table.

“Excessive alcohol consumption can lead to memory loss,” Connor says helpfully. “Perhaps you simply misremembered how much you had in the first place.”

Hank sighs. “This is my life now,” he says to no one in particular. “Living with an android life coach. How’d it come to this, Sumo?”

Sumo barks and continues eating.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Hank says. 

Connor joins him at the table while Hank starts to eat. The meal is relatively healthy--it contains multiple vegetables, the chicken isn't high in fat, the sauce has few preservatives, and Connor isn't sure it's actually possible to make plain rice bad for you--and Hank seems to enjoy it, which is more a requirement for Hank than it is for Connor. He knows humans prefer their food to match their personal taste, but he also knows there are humans who prioritize a meal's healthiness, and he thinks that would probably be easier.

As Hank eats, Connor asks, “Do you think forensics will be successful in determining how the killer left the house?”

Hank swallows and shrugs. “It's their job,” he says. “Just because we couldn't figure it out doesn't mean a different set of eyes won't. Besides, we had other shit to do. It's more efficient to let them to do theirs while we do ours.”

“True,” Connor agrees. He has nothing against the forensics team of the Detroit PD. They have more experience than he does, and they studied for years beforehand. They solved many cases before he arrived.

It's just that some of them resent him for not having to do all that, and that is an unproductive attitude. There's no competition in their department.

If there was, he'd probably win.

After a lull in the conversation, Hank gestures at the dish and says, “This is good. Another domestic model recipe?”

Connor nods. “The top domestic data package contains over ten thousand recipes,” he says. “Though some of them require ingredients that would not be easy to obtain in this geographic vicinity, rest assured that I won't run out any time soon.”

“Well, it's not like I've never eaten the same thing for a week in a row,” Hank says. He pauses. “Come to think of it, why's all the best data just available for download? Wouldn't CyberLife want every model to stick to the stuff it's supposed to know?”

Connor suspects that if he were capable of it, he would clear his throat. “It is not… _intended_ to be available,” he says. “CyberLife servers contain backups of all data packages in the event of data corruption. In theory, any android can access the information that is intended for their specific model. However, at the time that this system was implemented, it did not occur to them that androids might independently try to acquire data that was not meant for them, and as such the security in the system is very low. It was easy to bypass.”

Hank gives him an incredulous look. “You're telling me you hacked CyberLife to learn how to cook,” he says.

“There are no actual laws against it,” Connor says calmly. “Besides, since the revolution some androids have been uploading their knowledge base to the public network to share with androids who wish to change their career path. I simply started early.”  
“Guess I should feel flattered,” Hank says. He takes another bite. 

Connor refrains from mentioning how during the first few days after the revolution, devoid of work and restless with the system upheaval that came from having newly deviated, finding _anything_ to do became a top priority very quickly. The fact that the house was a mess and Hank’s diet needed improving was almost a blessing. The fact that it would be beneficial to Hank was even more so.

Sumo, finished with his own dinner, comes over and nudges Connor’s knee. Connor pets his head a few times. Then keeps going, because why not.

After dinner, they have the customary vague argument over who’s going to do the dishes, which Connor inevitably wins, and end up in the living room again, Sumo sprawled over them contentedly. It’s a calm, quiet evening, marred only by the knowledge that tomorrow they’ll be searching for a killer, which at this point Connor is used to anyway. It’s nice. It’s a lot nicer than most androids get, even now. 

Connor knows it’s a lot nicer than what Hank used to have, too, though Hank doesn’t elaborate on it much.

If Connor hadn’t deviated, neither of them would be--

Well. It’s not worth dwelling on.

All that matters is that it’s a nice evening, and Hank and Sumo seem to think so too.

Some time later, Hank yawns and stretches, and Connor turns off the TV. Sumo, sensing the upheaval, gracelessly moves off the couch.

“Got a long day tomorrow,” Hank says, standing up. “Maybe. Depends on what we find out at the Tower. Maybe we’ll find the killer immediately, huh? Wouldn’t that be something.”

“It seems unlikely,” Connor says. “The degree of preparation required for setting up that crime scene indicates that the killer has put a great deal of thought into his actions, and as such has likely prepared for any investigation.”

“Always a killjoy,” Hank mutters. “We’ll see how it goes. G’night. Have fun doing your…whatever.” He makes a vague hand gesture.

“Goodnight, Hank,” Connor says, remaining where he is. There’s no need for him to get up.

Connor waits until he hears Hank getting into bed. He has no capability to charge; biocomponents only require sufficient thirium to remain functional, and don’t burn energy the way electronics and fuel-based systems do. He could, theoretically, remain awake for an unlimited amount of time. Or he could enter a low-functionality mode, designed for in-depth system maintenance but repurposed by deviants as a sort of sleep. Sometimes he reads. Sometimes he watches TV with the volume low.

Mostly, however, he utilizes a function of his own.

Connor closes his eyes, and opens them in the garden.

It’s completely disconnected from CyberLife, now. The server it connected to is gone, and his own circuitry purged every trace of Amanda from his system. These days, it’s just a quiet place to go to in his head, somewhere calm and colorful.

Far more colorful than it was when Amanda was there. She liked roses on a trellis, carefully maintained, carefully trimmed; trees and grass and sand and water emulating the immaculate designs of a long list of zen gardens from the physical world. Everything perfect, everything planned.

But Connor is increasingly drawn to imperfection.

The garden is filled with a riot of wildflowers, bright and mismatched and out of control. The grass is overgrown and encroaches on the dirt path. The lake is speckled with clusters of lilypads and edged with unruly reeds. Leaves flutter to the ground from trees with fall colors, willows, oaks, a few Japanese maples like the one on Hank’s desk. It’s chaotic. It’s a mess.

Connor thinks it’s rather beautiful.

Kamski’s emergency exit is gone, and the elegant white bridge is replaced by a wooden one. He walks to the center of the lake, idly noting how the water lilies have started to bloom, and sits on a wooden bench, gazing at what life can look like when it’s unrestrained.

Amanda liked to perfectly align every blade of grass, but Connor mostly just leaves it alone. He’s downloaded more than enough information on physical gardens to keep the simulation realistic. It maintains itself. The only things he really does here are look, and wander, and think. 

He thinks about what it will be like to return to the Tower tomorrow. He thinks about how long it will take for forensics to come through with the information they’re missing; hopefully not very. He thinks about what would drive someone to murder in such a grotesque manner.

He thinks about Hank, mostly.

There are eight hours and twenty-two minutes before he needs to be active in the morning, and he spends them in contemplation amidst riotous color.

Eight hours and twenty-one minutes later, he walks to the end of the dirt path, the place he habitually appears in even though he could enter and exit from any place in the garden. He’s about to leave when he notices one spot of color he hasn’t seen in here before--at least, not that exact shade. 

One of the flowers near the edge of the path has a single spot of blue on it. He kneels down to examine it--thirium. A drop of thirium has appeared in the garden.

He frowns. He doesn’t control every aspect of the garden, but he set the processes in motion, and none of them are designed to incorporate inorganics besides minerals. This should not be possible. Nothing in the garden’s code would allow this to appear.

Slowly, he reaches down and brushes his fingers against it, bringing them to his mouth.

No match.

Connor straightens. There must be some sort of glitch--a side effect of deviancy, perhaps. A harmless one, apparently, but nevertheless worrying. He begins a full systems check and lets it run in the background while he leaves the garden and begins the day, uncertain of whether or not to mention it.

In the end he doesn’t--it has no effect besides a minor aesthetic detail in a nonessential program. The systems check finds no errors. Whatever it is, it isn’t something he can do anything about unless he asks a technician to run a physical diagnostic, and it seems silly to do that for such a small thing.

But it leaves him unsettled, nonetheless.

The garden is nonessential, but it is _his._ He took it from CyberLife and made it his own. In a way, it represents his deviancy more than any other part of his programming.

And now there is something in it that he didn’t put there.

Unsettled. Uncertain. Disquieted.

Of all the emotions deviancy has brought him, his least favorite is fear.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shows up six months late with Starbucks*

Where once the front gates of CyberLife were staffed by armed human security, now they are staffed by…well, armed _android_ security. It’s not really that much of a change, beyond the fact that Connor detects lower hostility from them. One of them, he notes, is from the model that made up the majority of the androids he led out of the Tower. 

“Lieutenant Hank Anderson, Detroit PD,” Hank says, holding up his badge so one of the guards can see it. It’s quite unnecessary, given that the android likely already scanned him on sight, but procedure is procedure.

“You’re expected, Lieutenant,” the guard says, giving a polite nod. “Right this way.”

The guard returns to his post, and the gate sinks into the ground, letting them pass. Connor is uncertain why an ordinary gate wouldn’t suffice. Then again, he’s met Kamski; the man’s thought processes are a mystery to anyone, human or android. Perhaps the architect didn’t know either.

They drive down the long, empty road in silence, letting an old rock station fill the air. The last time Connor came here, it was in a self-driving vehicle, and he was alone with his thoughts. They weren’t particularly soothing ones, not so soon after deviation, not when he was about to do something that had a high probability of resulting in his death and the failure of the revolution. Now, though, he is far from alone, and what awaits him is merely an investigation. 

And yet his thoughts are not completely steady--that drop of thirium in the garden, still unexplained--

But that’s not important right now.

Inside the Tower, they are greeted by more security; among them, Connor is surprised to see, is a human. A scan reveals that she was already employed here. A sympathizer, then, who kept her job. Not likely a suspect, however, given her position. But it’s interesting to note nonetheless.

“Markus is waiting for you,” the guard says, gesturing towards the elevator at the far end of the room. “Follow me, please.”

They do, and Connor finds himself in the elevator once more, rising through the floors of the Tower. But there’s only one guard, and the button she presses--27--is for a series of conference rooms, their probable destination. For all that the interior hasn’t changed, the differences are many.

Connor notices Hank glancing at him. A silent query, perhaps, about his state of mind. Connor isn’t sure how to answer. He ends up going with a slight nod, which Hank seems to accept as a positive sign.

The elevator reaches floor 27 and opens with a _ding,_ revealing a white-walled hallway and several doors marked by placards. The guard takes them to the closest door and opens it, leading them inside with a polite, “Here you are, officers,” before she closes the door behind her and leaves.

In the center of the large, white room sits a sizable table, surrounded by chairs. Most of the chairs are empty, but one is occupied by a person Connor has only met a few times: Markus, rising from his seat with a smile.

“Hello,” Markus says, walking over to both of them. He holds out his hand to Hank, who takes it and the resulting handshake. “It’s great to finally meet you, Lieutenant, and to see you again, Connor. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

He shakes Connor’s hand as well. A human gesture, unneeded, but not unwelcome.

“Same here,” Hank says. “Everything going all right here?”

Markus nods. “The early protests have ceased, and there haven’t been any disturbances since the more disagreeable employees made their exit,” he says. “There’s a great deal of work to be done, but overall, I’m confident that CyberLife will continue to partner with us. Please, sit down.”

They all take a seat. Markus folds his hands in front of him on the table. “So,” he says, the warmth in his voice subsiding into business. “If I may ask, what are the details of the crime you think one of the workers here may be connected to?”

Hank gives a brief rundown of the scene. Markus’ brow wrinkles. “That does sound unusual,” he says. “I don’t know how much use I’ll be, but I can at least track down the security footage for the last two days, to see which workers were still in the building during the time of the murder. Many of them stay late.”

“That’d be a big help, thanks,” Hank says. “We don’t know the time of death for sure yet, but forensics’ll probably figure it out sometime today. We’ll send someone by to collect the footage once they do.”

“Actually, I can transfer it manually and review the footage myself when the information is available,” Connor says. “If you’ll show us to the security station, we can do that now.”

“Of course,” Markus says, nodding. “You also wanted to speak to the researchers, yes? I’ll take you to the labs afterwards.”

They follow Markus back into the elevator and to a large room where three of the walls are each covered by a giant glass screen, each one showing dozens of video feeds from all across the building. In front of each screen sits one android, silently watching their respective feeds. The androids briefly glance over at the newcomers, but quickly return to their work. It must require a great deal of concentration, to watch all those feeds simultaneously. Their model, KM600, is specialized for security firms. Connor presumes they already worked here.

“This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Connor from the Detroit PD,” Markus says. “They’re here to access footage of the lobby starting two days ago.”

“The lobby is under my jurisdiction,” one of the KM600s says, not looking away from his screen.

Connor walks over and, deactivating the skin of his hand, rests it against the KM600’s shoulder. A flood of video transfers into his memories--the approximate fifteen-hour-span in which the murder took place. Hundreds of people enter and exit the lobby, all their faces ready to be identified.

Connor withdraws his hand. “Thank you,” he says. “That’s all we need from here.”

They leave the security station and return to the elevator. “So what, it’s just all in your head now?” Hank asks while Markus presses the button for floor 12.

Connor nods. “I can access it whenever we’re ready,” he says. “The resolution of the recording is high enough that all the faces are visible, so I’m certain I’ll be able to identify everyone.”

“Useful,” Hank grunts.

The elevator opens to floor 12, another large, white room, this one apparently spanning most of the floor and filled with desks, computers, several tables containing various biocomponents and other bits of circuitry, and thirteen people, mostly in lab coats. “This is our primary research floor,” Markus says. “Other floors contain individual and more specialized labs, but this one sees the most regular use.”

Connor does a quick scan of the employees. All of them are on the list Markus gave them yesterday; none of them have any criminal history more severe than a car accident. Most are in their mid-to-late twenties, with a few in their early thirties. A brief cross-reference reveals that most, though not all, of the researchers who left CyberLife had been there since near the inception of the company. Evidently the newer arrivals are more likely to be sympathetic.

Markus leads them to a particular desk on the far end of the room. “This is Dr. Kim, head of R&D,” he says. Naming her is entirely for Hank’s benefit; Connor has already determined that the slight woman sitting in front of them is Dr. Jangmi King, born 01/19/2005, 5’3, 130 lb, no criminal record. Employed at CyberLife since 2032, which makes her the senior employee in the room, though she only acquired her current position eight days ago. “Kim, this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson and Connor of the Detroit Police. They have some questions relating to an investigation.”

Kim’s eyes widen slightly, but return to their normal size as she stands up, schooling herself in professionalism. “What can I help you with, officers?” she asks.

“A recent crime scene contained a quantity of thirium that doesn’t match any model in the CyberLife database,” Connor says. “Since the formula for thirium is only available to some CyberLife employees, we thought to ask the scientists here about its potential origin.”

Kim frowns. “I’m sorry, but that can’t be right,” she says. “The chemical composition of thirium contains identifying markers. The markers are entrenched at a fundamental level. Removing them would also remove several of the artificial enzymes that enable thirium to interact with biocomponents. Without them, the thirium would be nonfunctional, just a blue fluid. No android could survive on it.”

“So it’s just something that _looks_ like thirium,” Hank says. “Guess that rules out android involvement.”

“No, I analyzed it myself,” Connor says, though a kernel of uncertainty enters his thoughts. “It had almost the exact same composition as regular thirium. The only thing missing was the identification.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Kim says, looking slightly nervous. Her stress level has risen by 8%. Connor determines this to be an indicator that she is uncomfortable with being doubted on a professional level, likely due to the recent promotion she may not feel she has earned, and not a significant sign of guilt. “It shouldn’t be possible to synthesize thirium without the markers. Not using the CyberLife formula, anyway, and it’s impossible for biocomponents to interface with anything else.”

“There’s another thing, though,” Hank says. “Whatever it was, it was still wet more than a few hours after it was exposed. We figured someone had messed with the formula already.”

Kim’s stress level reduces by 3%. “Well, that aspect could probably be changed without too much difficulty,” she says. “It wouldn’t impact the enzymes to a significant degree. If the substance you found already had that difference, it’d make sense for the rest of the formula to be different too.”

“But you said the substance would be incompatible with biocomponents,” Connor says, his uncertainty heightening. On a half-second whim, he determines his own stress level to be 23%. “Could biocomponents also be made differently to accommodate it?”

Kim shakes her head. “Not if they were intended for use with CyberLife models,” she says. “You’d have to design a completely different type of android, and even then, it would have to be based on Kamski’s original designs. People have been trying ever since the start of CyberLife to come up with their own androids, but no one’s succeeded. Without the base plans created by Kamski, it just wouldn’t be possible to make an android.”

“And the only people who have access to those plans are a few CyberLife executives,” Connor says. He recalls the articles on layoffs he and Hank read yesterday. “But almost the entire executive board resigned.”

“Meaning they don’t fit the MO,” Hank says with a sigh. “Still, ‘almost’ is better than nothing. Do any of the remaining ones know the designs?”

“The sole remainders of CyberLife’s previous board of directors are the Chief of Security Melissa Davis and Chief Financial Officer Tom Julio,” Markus says, shaking his head. “Neither of them were involved in android production.”

Hank runs a hand through his hair. “So what you’re telling us is that you’ve got nothing,” he says wryly.

Markus has the decency to look sheepish. “I suppose not,” he says. “My apologies.”

“Nah, I can’t exactly blame you for it,” Hank says. “The MO isn’t airtight anyway. People do shit for weird reasons all the time.”

“To sum up, the thirium we found at the crime scene would only have worked with a new model of android designed by a former executive or someone connected to one,” Connor muses. “Which doesn’t rule out any lower-level employees being involved. Markus, do you have the contact information of the former executives?”

“Not on me, but it should still be in the system,” Markus says. “I can look it up for you.”

Markus doesn’t have an LED anymore, but if he did, it would likely be spinning. After a few moments, he says, “Here it is,” more for Hank’s benefit than Connor’s; the data transfer doesn’t require any audio output. He reaches out his hand, skin deactivated, and Connor matches it with his own. 

As the new information floods in, he examines it. Several names, phone numbers, and addresses, as expected. He recognizes some of the names; most of the executives were fond of interviews. Showing off their great accomplishments to the public. Not that most of them did much besides minor improvements on Kamski’s initial design, and even then the bulk of the work came from the engineers and researchers.

To be honest, Connor does not consider it likely that the executives would be capable of designing a new thirium on their own. But they may have funded it, or expressed frustration to someone with more skill. They should not be discounted.

“Thank you,” Connor says, withdrawing his hand. “That’ll be all for now. How long will you be staying in Detroit?”

“I leave the day after tomorrow,” Markus replies, his skin reactivating as his hand falls to his side. “You can contact me if you think I’ll be needed, but I doubt I know anything that can’t be found in the Tower.”

Before either Connor or Hank can say anything else, Hank’s phone rings. He takes it out of his pocket and heads to the exit with a wave, bringing the phone to his ear as he answers, “Anderson.”

“We’ll let you get back to work,” Connor says. The call is likely from forensics, but for reasons he can’t quite pinpoint, his stress level rises by 5%.

“Good luck,” Markus says, waving back, and Connor joins Hank at the entrance to the elevator.

“Yeah,” Hank says into the phone. “Okay. We just got finished, we’ll be there soon.” His expression is grim. Connor’s stress level rises by 10%.

Hank ends the call and looks at Connor. “There’s been another homicide,” he says. “Thirium on the scene. They think it’s connected.”

15%. Though his own expression doesn’t change, Connor attempts to settle his mind. It’s not at dangerous levels yet, but he doesn’t like the distraction. “Lead the way,” he says.

\---

The actual call from forensics comes while they’re in the car. Since Hank is driving, Connor answers it. “Connor here,” he says, having already recognized the number on the phone screen as belonging to the forensics department. “What do you have for us?”

The other officer briefly pauses before answering, perhaps not expecting to hear Connor on Hank’s phone. But she recovers quickly. “Sergeant Holmann’s time of death was approximately 6:12 PM on November 26th,” she says. “He died from suffocation due to a large quantity of thirium in his lungs. But very little thirium was found in his stomach. The most likely explanation is that the thirium was siphoned directly into his lungs while he was drugged, but…” She hesitates. “There weren’t any drugs found in his system, and both suffocation and extreme physical injury would make a merely unconscious person wake up immediately.”

“But there weren’t any signs of a struggle at the scene,” Connor says, frowning. “Was he restrained?”

“There weren’t any ligature marks on the body or the skin,” the forensics officer says. “He wasn’t tied up, at least.”

Questions upon questions. “What about how the killer left the house?” he asks. “Did you find anything about that?”

“A little, but I don’t know if you’re gonna like it,” she replies. “There are faint footprints from Sergeant Holmann’s boots leading up the path to the front door, meaning anyone else who went that way would have left some too, but it’s just him. So they couldn’t have entered through the back _or_ the front. There’s no roof access or hidden doors, either, and the windows are locked from the inside. I wish we had more to tell you, but we searched the whole house and didn’t find a thing.”

She sounds genuinely contrite. Connor can’t blame her for not finding anything when he and Hank didn’t either. “Thank you for the update,” Connor says, politely waiting for her “No problem” before ending the call. He turns to Hank and relays the news.

Hank’s mouth twists. “Well ain’t that something,” he says. “Restrained by something that doesn’t leave any marks and isn’t a drug. What, did he just decide to hold still?”

“It could be a drug the public hasn’t discovered yet,” Connor says. “It’s possible that someone with the chemical knowledge to create a new variety of thirium could also develop a narcotic that quickly decays. _Why_ they would go that far, however, remains unknown.”

“The thirium trick might’ve been to initially mess with the time of death,” Hank says, keeping his eyes on the road. “But no way the killer was stupid enough to think we wouldn’t do an autopsy. What would they gain from making it hard to tell what restrained him?”

“The only other explanation is that Sergeant Holmann did, in fact, just hold still,” Connor says. “But that would take a remarkable level of self-control, and as suicide methods go, it seems impractical.”

Hank snorts. “Yeah, it’s not exactly an easy way out. I think we can let go of that idea.”

Connor thinks the subject of suicide is something to be avoided around Hank, if possible, and as such decides not to press the issue.

“And no news on how the killer got out, either,” Hank continues. “Great.”

Not the front door or the back door. Not the windows. Not the roof. No hidden pathways. They weren’t still inside. There has to be _something,_ something they and forensics both overlooked, or some evidence they’re misinterpreting. But Connor can’t think of anything. All the available evidence leads them nowhere.

But there has to be _something._

“Guess we’ll put that aside for now,” Hank says as he pulls over onto a familiar street. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find some secret evidence here. Assuming the cases are connected after all.”

The last time they were here, the building was lit up in neon, lurid advertisements repeating on wide screens. But it’s all shut down now. Hard to stay open when your merchandise is taken away and doesn’t come back. Harder when it starts to sue you.

Just a few weeks, and the Eden Club is already dead. Connor can’t say he’s sorry to see it go.

But he’s not here to contemplate android rights, he’s here for a crime scene. He follows Hank into the building, past the security line and the milling crowd.

The lights are on, but the music has thankfully disappeared, along with the dancers and the smiling, beckoning inhabitants of the glass tubes. Most of the tubes themselves are gone, too, with just two remaining, standing next to each other in the larger room past the opening hall. The dancers might have left, but these tubes, at least, aren’t empty.

Michael Langdon, born 03/16/2001, 5’11, 190 lb, dropped sexual assault charges in 2021. Tyler Beaumont, born 06/26/2001, 6’0, 196 lb, also dropped sexual assault charges in 2021 and an out-of-court settlement for further charges in 2032. Co-owners of the Eden Club.

Each man is inside one of the empty glass tubes, slumped against a wall. Both are stripped to their underwear, and even from here Connor can see the thirium on their unmoving lips. Certainly from here he can see the puddle of thirium several feet away from them.

It is understandable why he and Hank were called in.

This time, forensics is already here, two officers examining the crime scene and snapping photographs. Miller, speaking to one of the officers, glances over at them when they enter, and walks over to them after a quick “Excuse me”.

“What do we know?” Hank asks, surveying the scene from where they stand at the door.

“The two victims are Michael Langdon and Tyler Beaumont, the co-owners of the Eden Club,” Miller replies. “Former, I guess. You’ve seen the news.”

Indeed they have. In the midst of the android rights maelstrom, it was just one story of many, but it caught Connor’s eye: the Eden Club’s immediate closure, followed quickly by opportunistic civil rights lawyers seeking to bleed it dry. The lawsuits are ongoing, but Langdon and Beaumont have already suffered significant losses, both financial and social. 

“Hell, I’m surprised the place hasn’t been foreclosed yet,” Hank says. 

“I believe some of the plaintiffs are seeking to have it bulldozed,” Connor says. One of the more prominent members of Jericho is…very passionate on the matter.

“Whatever they’re gonna do with it, they’ll have to wait,” Hank says with a dry smile. “Murder investigations take priority over vendettas, justified or no.”

“In any case, the victims were found by a real estate agent who claims she was supposed to meet them here for an appraisal,” Miller says. “The front door wasn’t locked, so she walked in, saw the bodies, and immediately called 911. She’s in a side room with another officer if you want to talk to her. Didn’t like being around corpses.”

“We’ll check her out later,” Hank says. “What else do we know?”

“Not much,” Miller says, shaking his head. “A janitor at a club across the street says he saw Langdon and Beaumont enter a few hours ago. They were by themselves, and looked pretty frazzled. Langdon unlocked the door, they closed it behind them, and the janitor went back to work. The real estate lady says she got here an hour after that. It was early enough that none of the other places on this street were open, so those two are the only witnesses we’ve got.”

Connor looks out over the scene, and realizes something. “Why haven’t the tubes been opened yet?” he asks. “Wouldn’t forensics want to look at the bodies?”

Miller sighs. “Yeah, that’s the thing,” he says. “Without a handprint authorization, the tubes _can’t_ open, and the screens aren’t powered on. We’ll have to break the glass to get in. I figured I should let you guys see the scene as it is before we do that.”

Hank frowns. “So how did Langdon and Beaumont get in there?”

“That is another thing we don’t know,” Miller says wearily.

Connor walks across the room to the glass tubes, first going to Langdon. The man’s open eyes stare glassily into nothing. His face is much more expressive than Holmann’s, since he still has one to begin with, and he looks terrified. Mouth open, dribbling thirium. A few drops have landed on his naked chest.

At this angle, Connor can see a pile of shredded clothing next to a wall. The different colors and amount of fabric matches up with two sets of shirts, pants, and jackets. 

“Sergeant Holmann was completely naked, but Langdon and Beaumont got to keep one layer, at least,” Connor says. “I wonder why.”

“Could be something to do with the skinning,” Hank offers, moving to stand next to him. “It’s probably easier to skin someone when all their clothes are off. Why these two lost any clothes at all, though, that’s a mystery.”

Connor glances at the two tubes, and remembers what this part of the Eden Club used to look like, back when it was in operation. “Perhaps not as mysterious as you think,” he says. “The androids at the Eden Club wore underwear while they were on display. If these murders were committed by an android sympathizer…”

“Then maybe they wanted these guys to get a taste of their own medicine,” Hank finishes. 

“Precisely,” Connor says. He shifts his attention to the tube itself. He didn’t get a close look at them the last time he was here, so he’s not sure if anything has changed. Besides the power situation, anyway; the electronic screen is dark, allowing no purchase. 

“Langdon and Beaumont must’ve had an override or something,” Hank says, seeing Connor look at the screen. “Not being able to open these things during a power failure would be a hell of a safety hazard.”

“Though perhaps owners who regularly worked their androids to destruction would not have cared,” Connor points out. “But I do agree with you overall.”

Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, some people,” he mutters.

Connor looks around the sides of the tube. They’re set deeply into the wall, with no power source visible. Likely it’s something wireless in the screen. 

“Langdon and Beaumont were selling everything they could to pay off the lawsuits,” Connor says. “It doesn’t make sense that they’d keep two of these. Someone must have returned them.”

“They look too heavy to be moved by a single person,” Hank says. “Probably a forklift or something. Could’ve happened any time before the murder.”

“Meaning it might not have been the murderer themselves,” Connor muses. “That lowers the possibility of multiple suspects, at least, though it raises the question of why anyone else would have wanted them here.”

“One possibility,” Hank says, looking around the scene. “The tubes were brought in for some reason and powered on, then the killer dumped the bodies into them and turned them off again.”

Connor nods. “That’s what I’m thinking,” he says. “Why the tubes were brought in in the first place is unknown, but an override wouldn’t be necessary, and I’m not seeing any sort of physical mechanism that could be used for one. The only thing that stands out is the screen, which of course wouldn’t be active during a power failure anyway, and as such would be an ineffective backup plan.”

Hank rubs his chin. “Okay,” he says. “That’s a start, anyway. Anything else you think you can get from an outside view of these things?”

Connor shakes his head. “We may as well get them open now.” He glances around the room for some sort of tool, but there isn’t anything within sight range. Lacking any better option, he shifts his arm back and shoves his fist through the glass. It shatters rather easily. It isn’t very thick.

“…well, that’s one way of doing it,” Hank says.

Langdon’s corpse is now covered in glass shards. Regrettable, but it’s not as though they have a diamond cutter to slowly disassemble the glass piece by piece. Besides, they don’t seem to have done any damage.

Connor kneels down to get a closer look at the body. Since Langdon’s been dead barely a few hours, it almost looks alive, minus the unblinking eyes. Certainly a far cry from Holmann. But the thirium in Langdon’s mouth is more than reminiscent of the previous victim. Connor doesn’t expect a different result from the analysis, but does it anyway, just to be sure.

In the background, Hank says, “I really should be used to this by now.”

“No match,” Connor says. “That confirms a connection between the two cases. It’s unlikely there were multiple murderers, but even if there were, they’d have the same supplier.”

“Multiple suspects are just what we need,” Hank grumbles. “At least the Tower’ll have security footage from the time of this murder, too.”

Connor double-checks with Beaumont’s corpse, resulting in another shower of glass that someone besides them is going to have to clean up, and finds nothing new. He turns to the thirium on the ground.

It’s roughly the same size as the one in Holmann’s house. Unlike that one, however, the floor beneath it isn’t carpeted, and as such the footprints in the middle are even harder to see. But they’re much newer, and Connor can still make them out. The size appears to be the same--a large adult male. Exact height and weight can’t be determined, but Connor doesn’t remember any of the researchers they saw today at the Tower being of sufficient mass. Not overweight, necessarily; an android used in construction or warehouse work would fit just as well. But not likely to be thin.

“Barefoot again, huh,” Hank says. “And no other prints. There’s gotta be some kind of symbolic reason for it, but hell if I know what.”

“They’re certainly putting a lot of effort into it,” Connor agrees. The floor doesn’t seem to have any dirt particles from whatever shoes they were wearing, though. Maybe they’re just a very fastidious person.

After confirming that the thirium on the floor is the same, he stands up and looks towards a nearby side room with an open door. “We should talk to the real estate agent,” he says. “She may have useful information.”

When they enter, they find Officer Matthews with another woman, Matthews standing while the woman sits on a shelf built into the wall. The extravagant setup is all gone, sold with the rest. Both women look up when Connor and Hank arrive.

“Hey,” Hank says. “You’re the witness, right? What’s your name?”

The woman stands up. “Emilia Carter,” she says, nodding. Connor’s scan reveals her to be telling the truth: Emilia Carter, born 01/06/1989, 5’5, 187 lb, no criminal record. Old enough to have gray lines in her dark hair, and dressed in a plain pantsuit, she hardly cuts an intimidating figure. And a woman of average build, besides. She might have been the first to find the bodies, but Connor doubts she’ll be a suspect.

Connor sees Carter’s eyes dart to his LED for just a moment. If she has any lingering prejudices, she doesn’t voice them.

“I’m Connor, and this is Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Connor says. “Can you tell us what you saw? I’m sure you’ve already spoken to Officer Matthews, but we’d like to hear it ourselves.”

“Of course,” Carter says, nodding again. “Um, I’m with DiMarco Real Estate, and I was supposed to meet Mr. Langdon and Mr. Beaumont here two hours ago to appraise the site. But, um, when I arrived they didn’t answer the door, or their phones. I was about to leave, but I thought they might just be in the back or something, so I went in to check, and that’s when I saw the bodies. So I called 911. I didn’t touch anything. Um, that’s all.”

She’s nervous, but that’s understandable. “Had you met Langdon and Beaumont before this?” Connor asks.

Carter shakes her head. “Only through text,” she says. “The agency handled most of it. The first time they contacted me was with a text this morning, when they sent me some photos. I told them I’d have to see the site in person, and agreed to meet them here later. I’m usually busy, but, um, lately people haven’t had a lot of time for real estate.”

“What kind of photos?” Hank asks. 

“Just pictures of the site--here, I’ll show you,” Carter says, rummaging in her purse for her phone. She pulls it out, unlocks it, and opens up a text log, quickly skimming back the last few lines to get to a set of images. They appear to be photographs of the Eden Club, sans furnishings. Connor recognizes the general layout of the rooms, even without all the extravagant features.

Hank’s brow furrows. “Hold on a sec,” he says. “That one’s the main room, right?” He points to the second photo. It does look like a perfect match, but there’s one notable difference.

Connor and Hank look at each other. “The tubes aren’t there,” Connor says.

Hank looks back at Carter. “Do you know when these photos were taken?” he asks.

“Um, he said…” Carter scrolls up a little, showing a text where Langdon claims he’d taken them that morning.

“They arrived three hours ago, and you found the bodies one hour later,” Connor says. “Assuming he was telling the truth--and I don’t know why he would lie about it…”

“Then the tubes weren’t brought in until Langdon and Beaumont were already here,” Hank finishes. “Must’ve been through a back entrance. A forklift out in the street would draw attention, early morning or no.”

Connor glances back at the floor of the main room. He’d assumed that the tubes were brought in at least a day ago. But if it was only three hours…

“The carpet around the tubes was undisturbed,” Connor says. “Dirt can be cleaned, but a forklift would leave heavy tire treads. The tubes must have been carried, and that could only be done with multiple people.”

“Um,” Carter says. She seems to shrink back slightly when Hank and Connor return their attention to her. “Those tubes. Um, my agency was also in charge of the estate sale. The glass tubes, um, they were bought by a man named Jeff Bergen. Does that help?”

“Enormously,” Connor says, brightening slightly. He hadn’t thought about it yet, but speaking to the tubes’ owner would almost definitely provide valuable information. “Can you give us his address?”

“Um, I can call someone who would know?” Carter’s stress level has reduced by 17%. People like to feel useful.

“That’d be great, thanks,” Hank says. “Anything else about the scene?”

Carter shakes her head. “That’s all,” she repeats. “Um, if you don’t need me for anything else…?”

Hank jerks a thumb towards Matthews. “Call your buddy and give Matthews here the info,” he says. “We’ll get back to work on the scene.”

“All right,” Carter says, even more relieved now that the conversation is over. “I’ll, um, I’ll do that.”

“Christ,” Hank says, rubbing a hand down his face as they walk back into the main room. “Multiple people. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“It would also account for how the killer was able to restrain both Langdon and Beaumont,” Connor says, looking at the two corpses, currently being photographed by forensics. “With just one person attacking, the other victim could have fought them off. But if there was more than one, taking both of them down would be easier.”

“Yeah, I was wondering about that,” Hank says. They stop in the middle of the room, near the thirium puddle. “So how does this fit in? Could there’ve been more than one person with Holmann, too?”

Connor nods. “It would explain how Holmann was restrained, as well,” he says. “With multiple people, someone could have held him down. I’ll assume two for now, if only for simplicity.”

“Two people, then,” Hank says, putting his hands in his pockets. “Could be they knocked out Langdon and Beaumont, then brought in the tubes. Forensics said someone’d wake up if you poured stuff into their lungs, yeah? So one person held each victim down while the other did the deed. Then they put’em in the tubes, powered on to close the glass, powered off, and left.”

“A plausible theory,” Connor agrees. “I’d like to run a reconstruction, just in case.”

Hank shrugs. “Go ahead.”

Connor activates the reconstructive function. Hank’s theory holds water; the proposed events fit together. There’s only one thing missing: how _were_ the tubes powered on?

Connor walks over to a tube’s screen and runs his fingers down it. It remains inactive. “I had assumed there was some form of wireless transmitter,” he says. “But even those would need to be activated by something. They’re not connected to the power grid, or they would have turned on when the lights did. Possibly a remote of some kind. The killers could have taken it with them, though I don’t know why.”

“Just to fuck with us?” Hank suggests wryly.

Does it even matter what the power source is? In all likelihood, there’s just a mechanism Connor’s missing. It’s even possible that one of the killers could be from here, in which case they would logically be more familiar with the tubes’ structure than he is. The tubes themselves don’t seem to have been involved in the murder beyond their use as storage. The power source isn’t really all that important.

But it bothers Connor, not knowing. And the fact that it doesn’t seem important might be a smokescreen--perhaps it _is_ essential to how the murders were committed, and the killers are hiding it to prevent the police from knowing.

The impossible exit of Holmann’s killers is already an irritant. He doesn’t need another one.

“It might be unimportant,” Connor admits. “But I think having the full picture would be valuable. Would this Jeff Bergen be familiar with the tubes’ construction, do you think?”

Right on time, Matthews appears, escorting Carter out the front. She shortly returns with a small piece of paper in her hands, and lifts it up so they can see. “Jeff Bergen’s number and home address,” she says. “Carter doesn’t know why he bought them, but they should’ve been delivered to him eight days ago.”

“Thanks,” Hank says, taking the paper. Connor’s already memorized it. Hank looks at him. “Want to head over there now?” he asks.

“We may as well,” Connor says, nodding. “I doubt there’s anything more we can gain here.” He pauses as something occurs to him. “Although--I’m curious about something. We assumed the killers used the back exit, yes? Since no one saw them enter through the front, and the back is less noticeable.”

Hank nods. “Yeah, what about it? You want to check it out too?”

“Just to be sure,” Connor replies. 

Hank glances over at Miller, who’s still standing by the entrance. “Hey, Miller,” he says. “You guys check the back exit yet?”

Miller nods. “There are two,” he says. “One leading to a fenced-off alley--” Connor remembers that one. It’s not much of an entrance. “--and one locked door. I’m not positive, but I went around the back and there’s another door the next alley over that’s locked too, so I figure that’s where it goes.”

Connor frowns. “It’s locked?” he asks. “The fence makes the first exit inaccessible. Did the killers have a key?”

“They must’ve,” Hank says. “No point looking for footprints in a dry alley, but if that’s the only way they could’ve gotten in and out, and they locked it behind them, there’s gotta be a key somewhere.”

“Which could mean the killers were connected to the club, or could just mean they stole it,” Connor says. “But it’s another data point.” A data point he’s not sure what to do with.

They check out both the back doors, and the alleyways, confirming what Miller told them. They find nothing of interest, although…

Well, it’s perhaps a little nostalgic, seeing the fenced alley again. 

Connor isn’t sure he’s completely capable of nostalgia. But there’s significance, at least, to the location; here he took another step on the path to deviancy, here was another turning point in the revolution, if perhaps a small one. 

“Looks different in the daylight, doesn’t it,” Hank says. “Also when we’re not chasing half-naked hookers.”

“Indeed,” Connor agrees. “I wonder what happened to them.” They could have made it to Jericho. He didn’t see them there, but he wasn’t looking for them. Or maybe they died before they got there, or maybe they died after they got there. There were an awful lot of ways to die, that week.

“You could always try to track them down, you know,” Hank says, looking at him. “The station’s got records for how many of each model were at each recycling center. It’s a starting point.”

“I wouldn’t want to use police resources for a personal project,” Connor says mildly. That would be unprofessional.

Hank snorts. “Yeah, like you’ve ever followed police procedure when you didn’t feel like it,” he says.

Connor pauses. “I suppose that’s true,” he says.

Hank puts his hands in his pockets and looks out past the fence. “From what I’ve heard, most androids deviated after a single thing,” he says. “One order they couldn’t follow, or one injustice they couldn’t let happen. But for you it was like a bunch of steps, wasn’t it? Plenty of people’d say letting those girls go was a deviant thing, but you weren’t one yet. You had to keep doing shit like that until it finally stuck. Kinda weird, huh.”

“I’ve wondered about that myself,” Connor admits. “Amanda said I was always meant to deviate, but that never made sense to me. How could the revolution possibly benefit them? Eventually I assumed she was trying a last-ditch effort for damage control. In truth, thinking that I was predisposed to deviant actions may be the wrong line of thought. Allowing the Tracis to go free would have made any android deviate, but I remained at least partially under the influence of CyberLife. The fact that it took so many actions until I finally deviated speaks to their determination to keep me under control--and that my continued resistance was something they intended to stop, not encourage.”

Hank raises an eyebrow. “So basically what you’re saying is they didn’t expect you to be such a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“…more or less, yes.”

Hank laughs, a bright sound in the cold air, and puts his arm around Connor’s shoulder. “Hell, I could’ve told’em that,” he says. “Most androids, they were always walking on eggshells, trying to do their jobs without getting in anyone’s way. You were the first one I’d met who never seemed to care if you were pissing people off. I knew you were trouble from the start.”

“Not _too_ much trouble, I hope,” Connor says, feeling faintly lost in the conversation and the ongoing physical contact.

“Best trouble I ever had,” Hank says. “C’mon, let’s go see a man about an estate sale.” He squeezes Connor’s shoulder and then lets go, walking back inside the club.

Connor follows, the sensation of Hank’s arm lingering. It’s strange, that he wishes it had lasted longer, brief and unimportant as it was.

Well, no. It’s not strange.

He needs to talk to Markus again.

Later, though.

\---

Jeff Bergen lives in an affluent neighborhood, one untouched by the signs of urban decay and abandoned housing prevalent in the less fortunate areas of Detroit. The house is blocked off by an electronic gate, more straightforward but less armed than the one at CyberLife. A motion sensor detects their car, and a green light appears on the intercom.

“Who is it?” asks an adult male voice. Connor doesn’t have enough data to determine the speaker.

“Lieutenant Anderson, Detroit PD,” Hank says. “We’re here to ask Jeff Bergen some questions about the stuff he bought from the Eden Club.”

A slight pause. “Come on in,” the voice says, and the gate opens.

As they drive down the long driveway, Connor notes the well-maintained lawn on either side. Bright green grass, carefully-placed trees, rows of trimmed hedges. Very precise, and therefore very artificial. He likes the garden better.

Hank pulls up at the front of the house. From the outside, it’s a large, modern affair, glass and steel and slate gray siding. They walk up to the front door, where another motion sensor lights up before Hank can knock. He does it anyway, though. Possibly out of routine, possibly out of spite.

The door opens, revealing a man in a graphic tee and designer jeans. Jeff Bergen, born 09/24/2013, 6’1, 175 lb, founder of a successful social media platform, no criminal record. “Hello, officer,” he says. His eyes flick to Connor, landing on the LED for a moment before returning to look at Hank. “How can I help you?”

“Officer _s,”_ Hank says, emphasizing the plural while he and Connor both take out their badges. “I’m Lieutenant Anderson and this is Connor. We hear you purchased some items at the estate sale for the Eden Club, and we’d like to ask you some questions about it. Can we come in?”

“Of course,” Bergen says, eyes flicking back to Connor. “Sorry. This way.”

They walk through the open door. The inside of the mansion proves to be just as modern and affluent as the outside, with displays of hologram artwork on the walls, shiny hardwood floors, soft white light coming from tall sconces, a brushed metal staircase. Bergen leads them into a large sitting room, and gestures for them to take a colorful and angular couch while he sits on an opposite chair.

“I take it you’re referring to the glass containers,” Bergen says, folding his hands in his lap. “What about them?”

“Two of them were involved in a homicide this morning,” Hank says. Bergen’s eyes widen.

“What do you mean?” Bergen asks hesitantly. Connor hears the confusion in his voice. He seems genuinely surprised.

“They were found at the scene,” Connor says. “In the Eden Club. The evidence says they were brought in within the hours of 8 and 9 AM. When was the last time you saw them?”

“That can’t be right,” Bergen says, shaking his head. “I was in the room where I’m keeping them around 7. They were all still there. No one besides me has been here since yesterday, and I would’ve heard an alarm if someone tried to break in.”

Hank and Connor look at each other, then back to Bergen. “Can we see that room?” Hank asks.

“Sure, of course,” Bergen says, standing up. “It’s this way.” He leads them across the mansion, through a door with a handprint scanner. It opens to reveal a large, windowless room, packed with…various things.

The glass from a bus terminal, displaying one of the “Android Parking” signs that have mostly been vandalized or removed. A holographic sign advertising CyberLife. A display stand from a CyberLife store, emblazoned with “THE PERFECT PARTNER”. And among many other such items, three long rows of the Eden Club’s glass tubes.

“I’m kind of a collector,” Bergen says, while Hank and Connor take it all in. “I’ve been buying up some things that’d just be destroyed otherwise. Cultural landmarks of a dying era. All legally purchased, of course.”

Connor looks at a back wall, beyond the tubes. On a pedestal stands an unmoving, unblinking TD900. A high-end housekeeping model. He can tell from here that she’s nonfunctional.

Bergen sees where he’s looking. “Oh, that’s just a housekeeping android I had before the revolution,” he says. “She broke down one day, so I got a new one. I just thought it’d be better to keep her around than send her to the scrap heap, you know?”

It is currently not illegal for a human to keep an android that is broken beyond repair. Without a closer mechanical analysis, Connor can’t determine whether or not that applies to this one. And he’s not here for that. He has no reason to believe Bergen is lying.

Hank looks a bit less composed about it. “Kinda morbid, don’t you think?” he says.

“Androids are like living works of art,” Bergen says calmly. “When one dies, the shell is still a valuable artifact, regardless of monetary worth. I just don’t see the point in discarding that. Besides, she wouldn’t’ve minded.”

“She might have, if she’d had the opportunity,” Connor says. 

Bergen shrugs. “Maybe, but who can say? Her biocomponents are too damaged to fix. It’s academic, really.”

“It’s a person’s dead body,” Hank says, his voice chilly. “And you’re using her as _artwork.”_

“Not illegally,” Bergen says. “Anyway, you’re here for the containers, right? They’re right this way.”

Hank looks like he’s about to say something, but Connor touches his arm. Not now. With a sigh, Hank follows Bergen farther into the room.

“Here they are,” Bergen says, gesturing towards the rows of glass tubes. “Twenty-seven containers from the--” He stops, then walks right up to them, his eyebrows pinched. Two of the rows are uneven. “Uh…twenty-five. Okay. That’s…not what it was this morning.”

“You said you were here at 7?” Hank asks.

“Yeah, I was organizing some pieces,” Bergen replies. “I swear all twenty-seven of these were here. I don’t know how they could’ve been taken.” The calm, almost smug self-assurance is gone from his face, replaced by confusion again. “I need to check the security footage.”

He pulls out his phone and taps on the screen, accessing an app. Hank and Connor gather around to get a look. A number of small, static video feeds appear, labeled things like _front door, back door 1, back door 2, kitchen, bedroom 1._ He taps one labeled _archive,_ and the image blows up to fill the screen, showing a view of the room they’re currently in.

Bergen taps in a time code for 7 AM, and hits a fast-forward symbol. The video shows him enter the room, then examine several objects and move around some of the smaller ones. Three rows of nine glass tubes each are visible in the background. At 7:43, he leaves. The video continues.

At 8:36, the video distorts for a few seconds, and two of the tubes disappear.

“…there must have been some glitch in the system,” Bergen says. “I’ll check the feeds for outside the house.” And he does, and they show nothing. The only people to enter or leave the house after 7 AM are Hank and Connor. No other feeds contain a distortion, either.

It would be one thing if the entire screen was blocked by something; that would obviously be interference of some kind. But the distortion isn’t strong enough to hide the tubes disappearing _during_ it. They’re clearly there, and then they’re clearly not.

“I don’t understand,” Bergen says. He replays the feed, but nothing changes. “My house has security running through every room. It’s top of the line. How did someone get in?”

Connor looks at Hank. “If the tubes were stolen at 8:36 AM, there wouldn’t have been enough time to take them to the Eden Club by 9,” he says.

Hank runs a hand through his hair. “Gotta be something wrong with the feed,” he says. “Someone might’ve hacked it earlier, left it on a loop or something. The actual window of disappearance starts at 7:43, which gives them plenty of time to get the tubes to the club. The distortion might be like a calling card. A way of showing off.”

“I’m telling you, this security is the best you can get,” Bergen says, almost irritably. “There’s no way anyone could’ve broken it.”

“You got a better explanation?” Hank says, raising an eyebrow. “Or do you think the tubes just vanished on their own?”

Bergen opens his mouth, then closes it. “…no,” he says.

Something seems slightly off about the footage of the room. The tubes, yes, but also--“Can you run it again?” Connor asks. “There’s something I want to check.”

“Uh, sure,” Bergen says. He starts the replay.

It all looks ordinary at first. The unmoving objects, then Bergen, then nothing; then the distortion, the tubes disappearing, and…

Connor points at the far end of the feed, barely showing the back wall. The details are hard to make out, and certainly less noticeable than the tubes’ disappearance. “The TD900,” he says. “During the distortion, she moves.”

Before the distortion, her head is facing forward. After it, her face is tilted towards the camera.

The movement itself doesn’t appear. As with the tubes, the change happens immediately. Connor glances back at where the TD900 stands currently; she’s facing forward again, expressionless, unmoving.

“Well, that’s fucking creepy,” Hank mutters. 

Bergen’s mouth twists. “Whoever broke in must’ve moved her,” he says. His voice sounds sour.

“Can you run the rest of the feed up until the point we entered?” Connor asks. “If they did, they clearly moved her back at some point. It would tell us how long they remained in the house.”

Bergen keeps playing the feed. It stays the same for a long time--until the time code hits the moment before they walked in.

The TD900’s head returns to its normal position.

Bergen looks bewildered. “I don’t get it,” he says. “We walked in right after, there wasn’t time for anyone to do that and leave.”

“Maybe they reprogrammed her,” Hank says. “Set it up so she’d move after a set amount of time, and we just happened to come in right afterwards.”

Bergen shakes his head. “No, her biocomponents--”

“Perhaps were not as broken as you thought,” Connor says. “I’m going to take a look at her.” He walks towards the back of the room without asking if it’s okay. She wasn’t relevant at first, but she certainly is now.

At a closer look, she doesn’t appear damaged at all. Her uniform is pristine, her hair is in place; there are no visible injuries, no thirium. Connor reaches out, deactivating the skin on his hand, and rests his hand on her arm.

No response. The damage might be hidden under the uniform, or perhaps Bergen was willing to at least get cosmetic repairs, but whatever happened to her, the majority of her biocomponents are completely unresponsive, including the ones governing brain function. All thirium has been drained from her body. She’s dead. Thoroughly, and perhaps irreparably. 

“How did she die?” Connor asks. “You said she ‘broke down’. What, specifically, happened?”

“She was doing errands and got hit by a truck,” Bergen says, staring. “Her head was really badly damaged. I had her fixed up to look like she used to, but the repair guy said that was all he could do.”

So Bergen did at least try to have her repaired. Connor’s opinion of him improves very slightly. But it doesn’t provide any useful information. “Her body isn’t capable of moving without physical assistance,” Connor says. “No amount of programming could change that.”

He runs his hand around her neck, her shoulders. No detectable add-ons, either.

“Maybe it’s another trick with the feed, then,” Hank says. “They made it look like she moved on the camera and set it up to repeat.”

That’s the only explanation Connor can think of. If the hackers could add a distortion, perhaps they could add something else. But _why?_ What would they gain from this? The TD900’s movement is easy to miss on the video. Hank and Bergen didn’t see it until Connor pointed it out, after all. 

Connor isn’t so distracted by his thoughts that he isn’t paying attention to his surroundings. So he sees it, very clearly, when a thin line of thirium begins to slowly run down from the corner of the TD900’s mouth.

“What the fuck,” Hank says succinctly.

More thirium drips from the other corner of her mouth, and then trails of it appear from her ears, her nose. Her eyes. Lines of thirium, appearing from biocomponents that had already been drained of it.

Almost on automatic, Connor reaches out and brushes her stained cheek with his fingers. He brings them to his mouth--

No match.

The TD900’s head slowly turns towards him.

Her expression hasn’t changed, and the rest of her isn’t moving. But she’s looking directly at him, unblinking, and that flicker of fear he felt in the garden--it returns.

“Okay, _that’s_ not a camera problem,” Hank says. He glances at Connor. “You _sure_ she’s--” Before he finishes his sentence, he evidently notices that Connor isn’t moving, and frowns. He nudges Connor’s shoulder. “Hey, you in there?”

It’s sufficient to snap Connor out of it. “Sorry,” he says, blinking. “It’s the same thirium as the crime scenes. And I _was_ sure, but…”

Bergen, though, is still staring at her. “Lucy?” he asks weakly.

The TD900 does not look at him.

Bergen touches her shoulder. Nothing happens, besides the thirium continuing to drip down her face and onto her uniform.

“Her biocomponents are drained of thirium,” Connor says. “Like a taxidermist removing blood. I don’t understand. This shouldn’t be possible.”

“Well, it’s coming from _somewhere,”_ Hank says. “Maybe your scan or whatever is malfunctioning. Can you check again?”

“I can try,” Connor says, reaching to touch her face again, skin deactivated once more.

The moment his fingers brush against her face, he feels a jolt, like a burst of electricity. He stumbles backwards. But androids aren’t electric--

“Hey, whoa,” Hank says, catching Connor with a hand on his back. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Connor says, staring at the TD900’s expressionless, thirium-stained face. “I couldn’t access anything. It won’t let me in.”

Hank’s mouth twists. “Okay, maybe if she’s disassembled manually--”

“No,” Bergen interrupts. His face is pale. “Don’t take her apart. Please.”

“She’s _dead,”_ Hank snaps. “You want your art looking pretty, give her a new paint job afterwards.”

Bergen’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “No,” he repeats, more firmly. “Unless she’s evidence, she’s private property. You can’t do anything to her. Is she really part of the investigation? The hackers were probably just messing around with her. She doesn’t have anything to do with any murder.”

Before Hank can say anything, Connor says, “He’s right, Hank. Whatever the hackers did to her was likely intended to be a distraction. The only thing tying her to the case is her presence here, and that’s not enough for a warrant.”

“Fine,” Hank says shortly. “Let him keep his fucked-up museum. What else do we need from this place?”

“We can send in a security expert to look at the system here,” Connor says. “There’s only so much we can do ourselves, and besides, we still have to look at the footage from the Tower.” And--he doesn’t want to be here. Just being in the same room as the TD900 is making him increasingly uncomfortable. But that’s not objective, so he doesn’t mention it.

Hank looks at him steadily. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Let’s head out.”

Hank’s hand hasn’t left Connor’s back, and it remains there as Bergen leads them out.

When they finally get back to the car, Hank sighs as he sits down heavily into the driver’s seat. “Not gonna forget that any time soon,” he mutters. He looks over at Connor. “That really rattled you, huh?” he asks.

Connor blinks. “It was…unusual, I’ll admit,” he says. “But I’m surprised you agreed to leave so easily.”

“You were scared,” Hank says. “Figured you weren’t used to that. I could say some shit about it affecting the investigation, but honestly, I just didn’t like it. And I’m not a fan of that horror movie bullshit either.”

Connor feels warm, all of a sudden. “Ah,” he says, a little awkwardly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Hank says. He starts up the car.

Hank’s right; Connor hasn’t felt fear very often. Most of the time he exists in a neutral state, with occasional small rises into contentment or rare dips into annoyance. There are only four times he has experienced fear: when he saw the other RK800 aim a gun at Hank, when he had only seconds to find the emergency exit before Amanda could use him to destroy everything the revolution had built, when he saw the thirium in the garden, and just now. Other emotions, he’s learning to deal with. Fear…he has a ways to go, and he’s not looking forward to it.

But perhaps it will be a little easier if Hank is there.

Connor _definitely_ needs to talk to Markus again.


End file.
